1 The Scarlet Pimperneldred feet away perhaps, from where she stood, the being she
had once despised, but who now, in every moment of this
weird, dreamlike life, became more and more dear—it was
not possible that HE was unconsciously, even now walking
to his doom, whilst she did nothing to save him.
Why did she not with unearthly screams, that would re-
echo from one end of the lonely beach to the other, send out
a warning to him to desist, to retrace his steps, for death
lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or twice the screams
rose to her throat—as if my instinct: then, before her eyes
there stood the awful alternative: her brother and those
three men shot before her eyes, practically by her orders:
she their murderer.
Oh! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew
human—female—nature well. He had played upon her feel-
ings as a skilful musician plays upon an instrument. He had
gauged her very thoughts to a nicety.
She could not give that signal—for she was weak, and she
was a woman. How could she deliberately order Armand
to be shot before her eyes, to have his dear blood upon her
head, he dying perhaps with a curse on her, upon his lips.
And little Suzanne’s father, too! he, and old man; and the
others!—oh! it was all too, too horrible.
Wait! wait! wait! how long? The early morning hours sped
on, and yet it was not dawn: the sea continued its incessant
mournful murmur, the autumnal breeze sighed gently in
the night: the lonely beach was silent, even as the grave.
Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful,
strong voice was heard singing ‘God save the King!’